His Light
by MisplacedHyperQuill
Summary: She became the light he needed to continue. Sherlock returns to visit Molly, three months after the fall. One-shot. Give it a go- you may like it! :P Very light Sherlolly R&R!


**A completely random one-shot that would not leave me alone for the past few days. It's been very hard to work on other fics with this little bunny nagging the back of my mind.**

**I literally just wrote this in half an hour, completely un-beta'd so expect mistakes and I apologise for that. **

**Tell me what you think of my 'out of the top of my head' ****fix :DD**

**Faint Sherlolly :)) R&R**

She leans forward, her weight balanced on the hands she has placed on the cold table in front of her. Rigid, like the statue of perfection he is, the dark-haired man sat across her, face and emotionless mask as he looked behind her at something she couldn't see- even if she turned her back.

That light in his eyes- the everlasting look of triumph and pride had diminished. No not even dimmed- that meant it was still there.

No, the light in Sherlock Holmes eyes was (in one word): gone.

She pursed her lips, running the order of what needed to be done through her mind, at the same time ensuring her part of the plan so far was held up. It was essential. For once, _she_ was essential.

"Is it-" she started, startled when Sherlock's eyes snapped to hers. The crystalline orbs may have lost their line, but the shine of emotion was fully renewed. Clearing her throat, she tried again.

"Is it time?" she received no response, confirming her fears. Biting her lip, she inhaled deeply. She had to be strong this time. For him.

"I'll meet you down there. Everything is as how it should be."

Again, there was no response from the detective. She nodded to herself before reaching for her bag. Molly was just about to walk out the doors of the morgue when she turned around again, striding purposefully back to the detective.

Gently, she placed her arms around his long, pale neck and placed her head at the crook of his neck, inhaling his scent. This was the first time Molly Hooper ever had intimate physical contact with Sherlock Holmes- ever. Yet, this wasn't the time to be elated.

The man still didn't move, so the pathologist pulled away. However, he glanced at her one more time and Molly was once again shocked by the emotion in his eyes.

She left the morgue as fast as she could; ready to do her part in the hardest part of the plan.

Molly wondered if she was the only person to see the helplessness in his gaze: the anger at what had come to pass; the hatred for James Moriarty; the disappointment in himself.

Once again, the mousy pathologist steeled herself.

It was time to help Sherlock Holmes die.

…

…

…

The timing was impeccable, three months later, when he came back. Molly had just gotten home from a horrible day at work: triple homicide, a case so weird only one person had the skill and intelligence to solve. Too bad he's dead to everyone but her and his brother.

It was also the day John wanted to revisit the grave. Yet he couldn't go alone. Molly stood there, unable to do or say anything, as the doctor cried over what she knew was an empty grave.

She had glanced multiple times to the tree where she'd caught him hiding away at during his funeral. It was the last time she saw him. All she wanted to do was see him there again, walk up to the beautiful man and scream, yell and slap him for causing the mess he made.

Still angry, she poured herself a glass of mind to pull her away from the thoughts. It calmed her somewhat, the drink, and she realised that without his death, there would've been so many more.

In actual fact, Sherlock Holmes was what he refused to be.

A guardian angel.

A hero.

A _good_ man.

Suddenly feeling claustrophobic, Molly put her glass down and yanked of her annoying jumper and flung it onto the couch. Leaning against the counter, in a plain tank top, she rubbed her bare arms.

The hand on her shoulder made her screamed; a hand closing over her mouth silenced it.

_That's it_, she realised, _I am done for._

Then she looked up to meet her captor, and her body went slack.

Sherlock released his hand from her mouth as he eyed her form. Molly still stayed in her original position: one hand behind her, bracing her against the counter, but the other had rooted itself on her chest as she took in the man before her.

He was still marvelously pale, still so beautiful. Just want thing through her of.

Sherlock Holmes was ginger.

A giggle escaped her throat. It probably sounded hysterical because the man started and backed of a little. Molly sobered.

"Sherlock," she muttered, trying to be sure she wasn't hallucinating.

"Molly," he answered.

"_Sherlock_." she said again, the name sounding so foreign all of a sudden. The man smirked.

"I take it I have been missed." Molly saw the man he was before: the arrogant prat. That vanished a few seconds later.

"You're crying. And laughing- at the same time." He stated. Molly looked up at him.

"I'm laughing because you ginger, and I-I'm relieved you're…alive. But I'm not crying."

Molly jerked in surprise when one of his calloused fingers reached forwards to graze her cheek. It came away wet.

"Oh." She muttered lamely, as she tried to wipe away the rest of the tears.

"Is it okay if I stay-"

"Of course." Molly confirmed, moving around him to her room to grab some blankets and a pillow. "You can take the bed."

"No, I will take the couch."

"Sherlock-"

"_Molly._" That argument was closed "Besides, I will only be here tonight."

Molly dropped the blankets.

"What? Why?"

"I have to get back- work to do."

"A-At least recuperate!" Molly cried, trying to find excuses. He just go here- how could he leave again.

"I can't- the faster I finish this, the faster I can come home."

"No you can't- _you can't leave_!" she cried out again.

"Why not?" he asked, genuinely confused.

"Because you left!" she yelled, the volume and harshness shocking both her and Sherlock. "For _three bloody_ months, you left and you could've been dead for all I knew. At the same damn time, you left me to pick everybody else up. We all lost someone that day, Sherlock, whether you'd admit it or not. John lost a brother, Mrs, Hudson a son, Greg a partner and me-" Molly paused, inhaling "you lefts us, but at least they had that comfort that you were dead. I knew better, and so I still bloody _worried_. Worried you were rotting in a ditch somewhere, having you fingers cut off in some dungeon-" she cut off again. "I just want to be certain you're alive- even if it's just for a few days."

"Molly-"

"You know what? It's fine- I'm just being silly old me. It's not like I have a right to be selfish sometimes- not when a criminal network needs to be brought down. Stay as long as you like, Sherlock."

Bending, she picked up the pillows, and was reaching for the blanket when a pale hand beat her too it. She looked up to see the top of Sherlock's unruly curls. Wordlessly, they walked to the couch and set up camp for the fallen detective.

Molly kept working- arranging and rearranging the pillows, folding then tucking the blankets, anything to keep herself busy when fingers curled around her wrist.

She stopped, looking at the elegant digits.

"If you are short on time, why did you even come here?" she asked, still looking at the digits.

"Molly, look at me."

Molly made no response.

"Molly, look at me."

The pathologist suddenly felt her chin being pulled up to face Sherlock's. In resignation, she looked up at him.

She smiled inwardly. She could see that spark in him again. He'd probably brought down some bits of the network. His old pride was coming back.

"That's why."

Molly frowned.

"I don't-"

"You are the only person know, who I can turn too, that still believes in me- that still thinks I can come back. I needed the reassurance. I _wanted_ the reassurance."

Molly sighed, nodding and smiling. Her chin was still held in his free hand- the other was still clutching her wrist.

_Anything to keep that light in you, Sherlock- anything._

They pulled away from each other. Molly busied herself with force-feeding Sherlock before ensuring he slept. Incredibly peaceful, vulnerable and innocent he was when he slept. Molly made sure to burn that image in her mind.

The next morning, Molly entered to find the couch empty. She sucked in a breath and prepared to be strong for herself once again.

Then he appeared from the kitchen, two mugs of coffee in his hands. He passed one to her as he eyed her.

"What's wrong?"

"I thought-" she was cut off by hands on her shoulders.

"I won't leave without telling you Molly, or at least until you kick me out. I swear."

Sherlock took his hands away and picked up his drink. The two resumed their morning routines. Molly's at least was with a smile on her face.

…

The detective was standing by the door, dressed in a T-shirt and jeans. His ginger hair was straightened and flopping over his eyes. There was a backpack slung onto his shoulder.

"You're leaving." Molly stated.

"I am." He agreed nodding. Molly smiled, a lump already formed in her throat.

"Goodbye then, Sherlock." she said. The pair stood awkwardly until Sherlock dropped his bag onto the floor with a thud and strode gracefully over to the woman.

"You're crying again."

"I'm _not-_ dammit." Molly said furiously to herself.

"Who did you loose when I…fell."

"Huh?" she answered, in between wiping her eyes.

"You said everyone lost someone then, but you never said who _you_ lost."

Molly smiled ruefully.

"I think you already know."

"Humour me. I'm a dead man." Molly giggled, eliciting a genuine smile from Sherlock. Molly ran a hand over the corner of his mouth.

"You have a beautiful smile." She said absently. She looked up at him "I lost someone I love." She said before dropping her hand and looking away.

"I never knew your blushes spread to your neck and chest." Molly's eyes widened—she hadn't forgotten she was only dressed in a low-cut camisole and pajama pants. She moved to cover herself up.

"No- don't, it's endearing." He said. He stared into her eyes as she did the same, questioningly.

"I'm memorizing your shine." He muttered, answering her silent inquiry.

Molly gasped when she was suddenly enveloped by a lot of warmth. Once she regained her senses, she wrapped her arms around his waist and held on. She was shocked when she felt him plant a chaste kiss on the top of her head. When she pulled away, it was obvious he was as well.

"What was that for?"

"I am prolonging my exit." He said "And you gave me comfort when I needed it most, that day in the morgue. I am reciprocating that gesture a little late." He said before moving away to collect his things.

"Thank you, Molly Hooper. I _will_ be seeing you soon. I promise."

When the door shut, Molly had the ridiculous feeling that he would _certainly_ keep his promise.

After all, he was Sherlock Holmes- and his light was back.


End file.
